First breaths and hand rails

I've been scared of writing in here, and I just figured out why recently.  I was at lunch with Andrew today, and I was telling him how I felt about writing on the internet nowadays.  Every time I sit at the keyboard with the intent of writing something for this, I feel pressure to put down something that makes a deep connection with my readers.  I feel like I have to blow them away with a powerful emotion, while satisfying their intellectual thirsts with a witty and well written piece of literature.  All this while giving them hand jobs.

First of all, I don't even have a readership of any significant magnitude, so at this point taking into their consideration their feelings about this blog is worrying about a hypothetical problem involving imaginary people.  Second of all, and more importantly, why does it matter that everything I write be so powerful?  In musical terms, how is a triple forte at all impressive when there is no such thing as even a mezzo piano?  So today, I finally recognized that problem.  I haven't been ready or willing to write any of the build-up moments in this blog.  Instead, I've tried to write nothing but the payoff moments, and now I find myself trapped because of it.

Inspired by the other blogs I was reading at the time, I wanted to write a thoughtful and touching blog moved primarily by dialogue I had with others.  I guess that's not my style.  I can't do the short paragraphs of exchanges, moving at the speed of wit.  I'd rather write long sentences that are almost painful to read in their length, and I prefer a more introspective style.

So here it is, my attempt to start over.  I don't really care about pseudonyms like I did in the past, and I don't care about obscuring my identity.  By not including the real details of my life, I was trying to write about a life I didn't really lead anyway.  Every entry might not detail a entertaining interaction with somebody else; in fact, for all I know, I might never reference any actual lines of conversation ever again here.  What's important, though, is that the writing is true to who I am, and I hope that you, my readers, will find this all worth reading.

Let's start from the beginning.  My name is Glen Kim, and I'm currently studying at UC Berkeley for my undergraduate degree.  I am 23 years old, and I am still in college due to a number of false starts and screw-ups.  It tears me up every day I go to class, from in the morning when I wake up to the late night when I go to sleep.  I'm starting to get over it, though.  I may not be entirely perfect just yet, but I'm doing my best to correct my mistakes and be a better person.

A long time ago, I had a girlfriend named Putri.  I was young, and we were in love, and I didn't really know how to handle it or what it all meant.  I dropped out of school my first semester to be with her.  It was some good times, and I think I was actually pretty happy back then, but at the same time, I now know that it wasn't a good relationship at all.  Later, I came back to Berkeley, and we drifted apart, and it ended up in a messy break-up that I think still affects me to this day.

I don't know if I've ever really owned up to this before, but I think it was my inability to really hold interest in things for long that ruined the relationship.  I got bored, and I started messing up.  While I said that I was going back to Berkeley to finish up what I started, it was really to avoid what I had started over there.

It's a recurring theme in my life, not knowing how to finish what I start.  I guess that's what this is all really about: learning how to hold on.  So here's what I'm asking you, if I don't hang onto you, please hang onto me.  Someday I'll learn how to do it myself, and then I'll be able to do it for you.

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Joni Mitchell may have said that you don't know what you've got till it's gone, but a week ago I knew exactly what I had. I was at home with my family, enjoying a simple life of waking up way too late and playing computer games until I was bored of having fun. And that's not to mention the food. Oh God, the food. I end up visiting home every two weeks, even when I intended to stay away longer, just because I find myself craving all the great cuisine LA has to offer. Them shits is delicious.

Every morning, I would see the sun begin to rise as I would go to bed. It was a beautiful sight, and I knew that I had to soak up every God damned minute of it because it would all be gone like a dream I was about to fall into. My parents worried at my newfound nocturnalness, and I feel bad about that truly, but I have no regrets of catching sunrises in a way that not many people do. For me, the sunrise was like stars one might stare at before sleep. There may be a billion stars, each one a gem against the black velvet background of night, but I don't think that can compare to the melting of the darkness as a glowing god with the promise of hope rises to play a sunset in reverse.

I got to read a book that I had been putting off forever, and it blew my mind. Every time I put it down after reading my portion for the night, I felt like I was exploding. I'd never felt so full of life and before that moment, I'd been so blind to the simplicity to it all. Happiness and sadness were just colors; love was the picture. I don't know. I just don't know.

School started today and I hated it. That's okay though, I figure that occupations were meant to be hated. Why would you want to find meaning in your job/career anyway? I feel like the worst trap you could possibly fall into is falling in love with what you do for a living and then start letting that define who you are. I don't care how cool what you do for a living is, for you to let yourself think that's who you are... Come on. Of course, the exception to this is people who are out there doing shit for people that really changes the world into a better place. But you people who are doing that probably don't think you're defined by that anyway, you're defined by your love for others and you let that move you accordingly. Jobs are only a vehicle to let you do what you really want to do, and I just hope that what you want to do is something meaningful.

I want to fall in love with another person. I just want to know where that would take me; I feel like I'm finally ready for that journey. I'm finally ready for school again, and similarly, I'm ready for real relationships. I wish I could say more about how I feel about this, but there's really nothing for me to say until it happens. You just never know like that. But I do know this. For all the stupid things I did to other people in the past, I'm endlessly sorry. God damn I did some ridiculous crap, and bridges and earth are now totally scorched. I hope that somehow someday the people I fucked over will give me a second chance (everybody deserves a second chance) and we can be friends.

Until next time, friends.

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So I'm writing on borrowed time tonight. I'm on a bus heading home. My friend since middle school, I would even go as far as to call him my best friend, is leaving for Shanghai for graduate school in two weeks. There's going to be a surprise party. My life feels like it's falling apart as I'm dealing with addiction to online computer games and trouble keeping up academically. My laptop battery is low, and could go at any time.

It turns out that my battery went out before I could get that last sentence out. Now I'm on a bus back up to Berkeley, working on an overdue paper on my laptop. My bus got held up a few hours by traffic, and now it's pretty certain that I will be nowhere near on time for my class. It looks like it's going to be pretty impossible to finish this paper in time, too.

I feel terrible about it; I already got a one-week extension por gratis. I told my professor exactly how I felt about the class-- I hated it. I told her how I had my doubts about the accuracy of the analyses we make in class. Sometimes, they're just way over the top, and they go beyond trying to understand what the original writer meant and we throw in our own beliefs and biases in what I think should be an impartial analysis based on the context in which the writer created his work. Instead, here we are, assuming much more than we really should about the writer, and drawing allegory that borders on the pretentious. I just don't want to get lost, I say. I don't want to get so lost in the depths of the nitty-gritty examinations that I create a totally new interpetation that loses fidelity to the original work.

On the plus side, I'm feeling much better about it all now. It's hard not to feel inspired at 5:45am on a Greyhound bus full of people, watching the sun rise to your right and listening to really good music on headphones. We're passing through central California, and there is endless row of greenery after endless row, with the purple sky growing brighter with each moment as the sun climbs over the mountains in the distance. The people around me are all asleep, except for this tall Latino man near the front and the woman he's talking to.

I stood behind him in line before we boarded the bus. He's so gregarious it totally blows my mind. While he hasn't said anything to me directly, I easedropped on him telling another guy that he's heading up to San Francisco to attend his cousin's funeral. Right now, he's standing right in the middle of the aisle as he talks to this woman. He has a mi vida loca tattoo on the corner of his left eye that intimidated me upon my first impression.

The weekend was god damn amazing, and right now I feel ready and recharged. More to come soon.

Tennis Dreams

I had a dream about playing tennis last night. I don't remember much about it, but I think I was playing against Naomi. One thing I do remember particularly clearly is that I was having trouble with my serves. The rest of my game was pretty decent, and I kept up with the game extremely well for not having picked up a tennis racket for over 10 years.

I'm not the biggest fan of tearing apart dreams to find deeper meanings, but I did walk away from my recollection of the dream with the following interpretation: while I have little trouble interacting with people whom I'm familiar with, getting to know them is harder for me. In short, I am too shy.

Let me just say something about tennis in my family. We're totally freaking nuts about it. I gave up the sport before I was 12, but not before I was subjected to years of tennis lessons at my parents' insistence. I never thought much of it at all until I visited Korea the December before last. While there, I got to know the uncles on my mother's side better, and it turns out that they both make livings off tennis.

My grandfather was quite an athlete, and it turns out his favorite sport was tennis. I was puzzled when his athletic conquests were mentioned during the eulogy at his funeral, but my mother later explained the entire story to me. My grandfather held one of the top administrative positions of the national tennis league in South Korea sometime during the 60's. Most of my family participated in a national tournament. They all placed highly, but the most potential was shown by my second eldest uncle, who won first place in the high school division.

Today, my eldest uncle gives tennis lessons in Korea while my second eldest uncle operates a tennis equipment store. My youngest uncle met his wife through playing tennis. I hear that their children have recently begun taking lessons. I've promised myself that I am going to start playing again before it's too late.

I don't know if it will help me in dealing with relative strangers, but the sooner I start playing again, the sooner my serves will improve.

To be 6 again

Today at breaking practice, there was an unusual crowd. There had been a town hall style meeting to discuss politics and hip-hop, and so there were are unfamiliar faces watching us dance after the meeting had adjourned. The most entertaining strangers were some of the children who had been brought along by parents.

More than once I caught some of the children staring at me. This is always a slightly awkward situation for me, because I find it hard to smile on cue. I love little kids, especially because they're not mine and I don't have to deal with them when they're ugly. I love them with all my heart, but I have the most difficult time producing a friendly face, even when I am feeling playful. I tried my best to at least look warm, but I don't think I ended up being too convincing.

During practice, I sometimes go outside for air when feeling out of breath. As I walked back into the room after one of these breaks, I stopped at the sight of two young girls, maybe 2-3 years old, standing before me. I'm not sure if they were on their way out while I was on my way in or if they were just playing in that vicinity, but they stopped to look up at me. For a moment, I felt clumsy like I had almost run right into them.

What happened next blew my mind. In a reflexive action, one girl clutched the hand of the other. I can't say for certain, but I'm pretty sure that they had never met before today. In fact, I don't think there was even much if any verbal communication between them. But when suddenly confronted and apparently intimidated by my presence, they clung to each other for strength. I was floored by their compassion for each other, when they had been complete strangers an hour ago, and by the sincerity with which they expressed it.

It reminded me of my first kiss, when I was only 3 years old. I don't remember much of the experience, being 3 years old and not very cognizant, but I do remember the gist of it all. I had been brought along with my parents to a party and left to make friends with the children of the other adults attending. I ended up finding a friend in a young girl about my age, and we were sitting together on the stairs when she leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. Having seen this all, the other children at the party began to laugh, presumably at our corniness. God was I embarrassed.

Coming back to the present day, I was suddenly made aware of what it must be like to be a child whose head barely reaches past the knees of an adult. On one level, I could see that it was scary sometimes to be unnoticed and thereby insignificant to an adult. But even more strongly, I felt the weight of their developing minds' constant attention on me, as they took care to stay out of my way. One day, these babies will grow up to be the adults to take my place, and their constant watching will transform into actions of their own, much of it shaped by what they observed adults like myself doing. At that point, I desperately needed to present a welcoming smile, but the best I could manage was to walk away in discomfort while hoping I looked friendly.

After practice, I found my way to a park that I have passed by for 18 years without ever visiting. It lies next to the freeway only a few miles from my house, and I had eyed it wistfully every time my mother drove us back home after going to Los Angeles. In the eyes of a 6 year old, that park was heaven on earth, complete with rays of sunlight breaking through ominous clouds to shine upon it. The night before, I had looked up its location and directions on the web.

I walked all through its concrete paths, sat in a tire swing, and lay in one of its grass fields. I stared at the moon, shining silver in the not yet dark sky. I listened to cars fly by on the freeway as they took their tired drivers home from wearisome jobs. For a moment, I was 6 again.